Harvesting
by flecksofpoppy
Summary: Written for the Shinigami Scribblings prompt "correspondent."


_Dear Alan,_

_Today, on a reap, I came across a flower growing under a bush. It was just pushing up from the dirt, and it was pink. Maybe you know what kind it was? Well, anyway, I couldn't resist and picked it. It was a cruel thing to do, really, but it made me think of you. I thought you might like it._

_I put it in a vase on the window sill where only I can see it, and I realized that you'd never approve of theft. But know that it's there, just for you._

_Yours,_

_E.S._

* * *

Alan has found that fruit and vegetable-bearing plants are the strangest of living world fauna. They grow flowers but end in sustenance, beautiful and practical.

He manages to grow a tomato plant in his flat, using what little sun is available. Eric comments when he sees the plant that the yellow flowers are "cheerful" (Eric's arsenal of adjectives to describe Alan's indoor gardening hobby is growing, but it's like watching someone learn a different language).

Later, when they eat, Eric asks him where he's gotten the fresh tomatoes for the salad. Alan replies it was the cheerful plant that has begun to bear fruit, and Eric's chair scrapes out roughly as he stands.

Alan looks hurt as he pushes the salad – Alan's sole contribution to the meal – toward the table as far as away as it can get.

"Well, mate," he says gruffly, looking at the floor, "can't eat that."

"Why not?" is Alan's soft question.

"Grown... like in the living world," Eric reasons. "Fine to look at, but not to eat." 

* * *

"They won't hurt you," Alan says. He eats the rest of the salad himself, staring down at the table, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

_Dear Alan,_

_I wanted to apologize. The salad looked delicious, and it would've gone perfectly with the lemon chicken, but it wasn't to be._

_Today, I picked a bouquet of red flowers. They looked like what you call chrysanthemums, and it started to rain shortly after the fact, but it made the air smell fresh. One day, I'll become better at picking the blossoms. Botanists do it so effortlessly – just a snip of the stem – but I'm not one yet._

_I would give it to you, but I'm afraid I lost it on the way back to our plane. My hands were shaking and I felt weak._

_Please forgive me for dropping the bouquet. They were meant for you._

_Yours,_

_E.S._

* * *

"You snip them at the stem," Alan says cheerfully, smiling at Eric with pale lips, "and they stay alive longer."

Eric tilts his head to the side in fascination as Alan finishes his cutting process and places the vase in the sun. The crystal refracts small points of light onto Alan's face as he turns away, and Eric watches them until he blinks.

It's eleven a.m., and they sit together in Eric's kitchen, absent from a weekday shift.

They sip tea together, until Alan pulls out the sheath of reports he's brought with him. Eric sits and reads a book, and they coexist quietly.

At one, and Alan is refilling his ink well and cleaning off his pens. The flowers are standing straight now, as if stiff and at attention, awaiting a battle. Alan asks him to double-check the paperwork, and Eric obliges.

It's three, and Eric finishes his book just as Alan finishes writing. Alan finally looks at Eric hesitantly; the flowers just behind him on the window sill are bending desperately toward the light outside the window.

Eric doesn't ask. He just helps him up, and Alan leans against him heavily as they make their way into the sitting room.

"Good day as any to call in," Eric says brusquely as Alan nearly collapses down onto the settee.

"I suppose," he says. He's winded and out of breath, trying to hide it. It's been a bad enough day for him to call out.

"Come on, then," Eric adds, sitting down next to him. He gets close, but doesn't think too much about it; these days, being close has become a necessity.

He's not expecting Alan to fall asleep against him, though, when he offers to read one of the books he'd thought Alan might like.

It's only after several hours, as it goes eight, that Eric displaces him to attend to business outside the flat.

He leaves Alan on the settee with a blanket over him, and says he'll be back soon. 

* * *

_Dear Alan,_

_The flowers on the window sill have started to droop, and no matter how much sunlight and water they get, they won't seem to perk back up._

_This morning, over my coffee, I cried about it. Sounds silly, eh? But I did, because I could see the petals starting to wilt and crumple at the edges._

_I'm sorry for not coming to your flat last night, like I said I would to cook, but I was busy with things more important than dinner. _

_Your face this morning... Please never look at me like that again._

_I've plucked up at least 20 more flowers for your bouquet. There'll be enough for a vase full, and they'll never wilt. You'll never have to cry again, like you did the other night over the tomatoes, when I finally agreed to eat them, and I'll never have to trim the stems of flower buds._

_Yours,_

_E.S._

* * *

"You look tired," Alan says, staring at Eric.

"I've taken on more shifts since you've been away."

Eric feels a phantom in his chest where his heart used to be.

"I'm sorry," Alan replies softly, looking at his desk blotter. He's assigned a portion of the To Die List once a week, and is remanded to desk duty for the rest of the time.

"Well, don't bloody well ask questions, will you, then?" Eric snaps, and Alan just nods his head.

The blotter turns dark in one corner, and Alan scrubs at his face roughly.

Eric mumbles an apology, and Alan mumbles an acceptance.

Later, Eric leaves leftovers from a meal he made the night before on Alan's desk at dinner time with no explanation. 

* * *

_Dear Alan,_

_I'm sorry for yesterday. I heard you crying in the tea break room, but I hope the cooked vegetables were good. I used some of your tomatoes. _

_I saw the most amazing thing this evening. Remember when we went on your first reap, and we saw those petals everywhere?_

_Tonight, it seemed like there were hundreds of little petals in the air, colors and shapes and sizes. I've become better at garden-tending, and the flowers I find are finally easier to pick. I think you'd be pleased._

_It's only a matter of time now until I gather up a suitable bouquet. _

_Yours,_

_E.S._

* * *

Alan doesn't listen when Eric says no.

He doesn't even listen when Eric's voice cracks, and he can't breathe anymore, and he's shaking his head.

Alan just shushes him, and presses their lips together again.

"It's all right," he's saying. "Eric, just relax."

Alan doesn't ask, even though he knows it has nothing to do with a first kiss, when Eric finally cries against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he says over and over, "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Alan replies, stroking his hair. 

* * *

_Dear Alan,_

_I'm nearly done with my flower gathering, so in case this is my last letter, let me tell you the some things. I don't whether you'll feel they're important, but I do._

_The first time you collapsed, I helped you sit up and you cried, and I didn't in the infirmary. Just so you know, I did afterwards. _

_It wasn't because I slighted a girl from General that they stopped talking to me, like I told you. It was because the first, and last, woman I was with after you became ill was cross at me, since I could only cry in bed._

_When I'm gone, and if I'm in hell, I'll remember the night you kissed me._

_I forgot how to cry when I got into the 600s of the souls I'd reaped, and that's why I couldn't kiss you back._

_I want to take off my glasses and not be able to see. I only want you – to touch your face, to kiss you, to close my eyes and forget everything except you._

_Yours always, with love,_

_E.S._

* * *

Will finds Eric's penmanship to be somewhat lacking, but he doesn't turn in the letters he finds tucked away in Eric's desk drawer.


End file.
